Alpha males in the midst

Our 3-year-old and 4-year-old grandsons are arguing -- again. It's only Wednesday night -- and their parents will not pick them up until Saturday.

The gentlemen running for highest office in the land just got through fighting non-stop for months. I guess that sort of behavior is bound to trickle down or seep up depending on where you stand.

"I'm tired of Bronco Bamma and Mitt Romney!" wailed a 5-year-old girl on YouTube, a clip that went viral overnight. Can you blame her?

As parents we make similar objections when our own kids are rivaling. And just like campaigns, it is exhausting and expensive.

I tried a positive strategy with our two competing puppies.

"Please walk ... Try to use your indoor voices ... We tag each other, we don't hit -- tag ..." I say for the umpteenth time.

"Right, Grammy!" they chirp as they bounce from the bed to the couch.

"Who jumps the highest, Grammy?"

On day two I explain to the boys that I have to go to work after we have our snacks.

"Where do you work, Grammy?" they ask.

"At home," I say, and I show them my laptop and I sound a little like the Grinch: "I write it right here, and I send it off there."

Ohhhh, they nod together.

I walk 25 steps to my office while Papa helps the two of them prop up their blanket fort, the same fort they were power struggling over how to build the best way just seconds before.

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I've barely squashed the air out of my office chair when footfalls approach my desk at the speed of light.

"Grammy, are we bothering you?"

"Yes," I say in my most professional voice.

"OK," they chime as they fly out of my office, zooming their make-believe jet engines through the rooms and down the hall.

Speaking of jets, we have the kissing cousins because their parents happen to be on business trips; one set is staying at Foxwoods, and the other, coincidentally, at Caesars Palace.

The tagline "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" pops into mind as I sign in online, and I finish it off with my own ending, "... unless it's another grandchild."

I can't help myself. I write an advice column on parenting, and with two small alpha males in my midst, a sure antidote to the center-of-the-universe-syndrome-of-the-only-child lights up like a light bulb in that imaginary bubble above my head.

Collin breezes back in. "Where's Robert?"

"Don't know," I say, trying to form an idea. He leaves the room just as Robert enters from a different door.

"Are we bothering you, Grammy?"

"Yes," I say, all business.

He runs off.

Papa's got a new office chair and is assembling it out in the kitchen. The boys have taken an interest in the nuts and bolts and screws of it all, but the bliss is short-lived.

"I had it first!" shouts Robert.

"No!" yells Collin.

"Yes!" screams Robert.

"No!" squawks Collin.

"Yes!" shrieks Robert.

"Stop!" demands Papa.

Unfortunately my screen is still practically white, except for that annoying little cursor, which seems to be pointing a skinny little finger at me. It's going to be a long day.

More pitter pads come rolling back to me, and they are tapping, tugging and pulling on my arm.

"Grammy, can you make us some hot cocoa?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because, Grammy is working," I say. (I really have to stop referring to myself in the third person.)

"Papa will make some for you," I promise.

"OK," they say, making sure they pout long enough for me to look up before they see who can get to the kitchen first.

And it is OK, for a minute or two.

"I need help," Robert says from somewhere in the house.

"I'll help you," Collin says.

The sound of cooperation frees up my fingers from the chains of grandparenting guilt, if only for a few seconds.

"Don't push me!" says one.

"Don't push me!" counters the other.

And like weathervanes in a windstorm, the young inquiring minds reverse direction.

"What is that?" Collin asks Papa.

"What is that?" Robert echoes.

"The casters," says Papa.

"Oh," says one.

"Oh," says the other.

Somewhere in the distance something pings and rolls across the floor.

"I can get it!" says Collin scrambling.

"Thank you," Papa says.

"You're welcome," he says.

"It doesn't look like a chair yet, Papa. What is that?"

"This is the base."

I can hear voices and car sounds and giggles. And Papa says, "All right, hold that like that."

I can hear the casters rolling now under the weight of something, perhaps a small boy?

"Now you get in!" says Collin.

"Look it, Papa!" Robert says.

"Isn't that fun?" says Collin. "Now you get down, and I get up."

Heavenly.

And then as quick as greased lightning, they burst through the office door and slide across the floor.

"Tag, you're it, Grammy!"

"Yah, tag, you're it, Grammy!"

And before they are even out the door they are already quarreling about who is the fastest and who can run the farthest.

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